ulling back through every halt of the
train. Jerry sat inside, watching the last bus, loaded and hung-on-to,
swinging off down the dusty road toward the town, a full half-mile
across the prairie from the station. Life was getting a trifle too
interesting in this foreign clime, and when the short man appeared in
the doorway, even the full-moon face and half-moon smile, the profound
bow and comical strut, could not out-weigh the genuine comfort his
presence seemed to bring.

"Pardon me, Miss--Miss--"

"Miss Swaim," Jerry informed him, sure of herself and unafraid again.

"Oh, Miss Swaim! My name is Ponk--Junius Brutus Ponk. Pardon again if I
seem to intrude. This is the Sage Brush terminal. Excuse me if I say
thank the Lord for the end of _this_ day's journey! The buses are all
gone. May I take you to your destination here in my little gadabout? You
want to stop somewhere in New Eden overnight, anyhow."

"Thank you very much."

Jerry looked at him gratefully, even if he was only one of the bunch of
grubs she had been forced to ride with all this long afternoon, she who
had once repudiated the Winnowoc train and all trains without Pullman
accommodations. "The smile on her face was mightily winsome," Ponk
declared afterward, "and just took all my ramparts and citadels and
moats and drawbridges at one fell swoop."

He gathered up her bags and helped her off the car pompously, saying:

"Here she is, Miss Swaim. Step right in." And then with a flourish of
arms he had Jerry and her belongings stored inside a shiny gray runabout
and was off down the grassy road with a dash.

"Where shall I take you to, Miss Swaim?" he inquired, when the little
car had glided gracefully around the lumbering buses and rattling
wagons.

"To the best hotel, please," Jerry replied. "Do you know which one that
is?"

"Yes'm. There isn't but one. The Commercial Hotel and Gurrage. I'm the
proprietor, so I know." The smile that broke around the face of the
speaker was too good-natured to make his words seem presumptuous.

Jerry smiled, too, finding herself in the grasp of a strange and
complete confidence in the pompous little unknown chauffeur.

"Do you know an old gentleman here named York Macpherson, a Mortgage
Company man?" she asked, looking at him directly for the first time.

Ponk seemed to gulp down a smile before he replied: "Ye-es, I do know
York very well. He's prob'bly older than he looks. His office is right
across the street